


What A Match We Make

by aroceu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad Matchmaking, Character Death Fix, Fix-It, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 09:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5702962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroceu/pseuds/aroceu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House elves are the bane of Draco’s existence. He will not put up with these shenanigans. And why does Potter keep appearing around every corner?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What A Match We Make

**Author's Note:**

> "Drarry fic? In 2016?" Yeah, I know. But I wrote this in October and finally got it polished up! I hope you enjoy it ^^
> 
> Thank you so much to [Carole](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza) for the britpick and edits <3

  
It’s Draco’s first time in the kitchens because Goyle needs comfort food and he’s going to wake up the whole castle if he comes out of the common room blubbering like that. Pansy is useless, Nott is even more useless, and Draco might be aggravated but he’s not a terrible person. Also he kind of knows what it’s like, Goyle, wanting to cry because it’s only their first week back, and Draco’s been enduring nasty looks from the other students already. Goyle’s not crying because of that, but. Draco knows.  
  
So Goyle had told him to go down to the warm part of the dungeon—which really shouldn’t count as a dungeon, Draco knows that he means the Hufflepuff common rooms but no one says _Hufflepuff_  in the Slytherin dungeons if it’s not an insult—and tickle the pear on the biggest hanging portrait there. In all honesty, Draco’s kind of impressed that Goyle had found the kitchens, but of course he would. Crabbe was probably with him when he did.  
  
Draco shoves that thought away.  
  
He’d tickled the pear, almost convinced it wouldn’t work. But it did. And now Draco is surrounded by a swarm of house elves, one-quarter of his height, staring up at him with eager, bulbous eyes.  
  
But one of them is standing a little ways off, decked in tea cosies and socks and what appears to be a jumper. Draco vaguely wonders if McGonagall knows that she has a free elf in her kitchen, but consciously decides to never bring it up to her.  
  
He realises, as he squints, that he also recognizes the house elf. “ _Dobby_?” he says incredulously.  
  
The house elf who is most certainly Dobby flinches. The other house elves notice the sudden tension in the room; then they’ve all scattered, busying themselves with whosits and whatsits, like Draco and Dobby are not there.  
  
The last time Draco had seen Dobby was when Dobby had freed all the prisoners in Draco’s home, last year. Before that was when he was twelve, and about to head into his second year of Hogwarts.  
  
“M-Master Draco,” Dobby stutters, as Draco walks up to him.  
  
Draco’s immediate instinct is to give him an order, even though Dobby isn’t his family’s anymore. Or hasn’t been—he practically killed Aunt Bellatrix that last time. Well, Aunt Bellatrix ended up getting killed by that Weasley woman anyway, but Aunt Andromeda had always been Draco’s favorite, even if he’d stopped seeing her when he was seven.  
  
“What are you—” Draco finds that his mouth is dry. “You work for Dumbledore?"  
  
The name slips out by accident. Draco will always say it’s because he’s not used to the school being run by anyone other than Dumbledore anymore, but he knows the real reason why.  
  
Dobby whips his head around at him. His mouth quivers.  
  
“Y-You—” he says, tears in his big Quaffle-sized eyes. “M-Master Draco  _dares_  to talk about Master Dumbledore—”  
  
“I would’ve been killed!” Draco says indignantly. He doesn’t know why he’s defending himself to a house elf, anyway. Something about the way Dobby is looking at him is making him feel—Draco doesn’t know—something. It makes him _feel_ , okay. His cheeks turn pink.  
  
Dobby says, quietly, “Dobby thinks th-that Master Draco should… leave…”  
  
Draco thinks he should leave too. He could probably steal a custard pie and then sprint off, though he’s pretty sure the house elves would be more than happy to give it to him if he just asked. But Dobby is standing here and something in him is telling him to fight or flight, so Draco—  
  
“Who gave you that jumper?” he asks, out of burning curiosity.  
  
It’s stitched dark scarlet with gold around the neck and sleeves and hem. There’s a golden print of a sock plastered in the middle, and Draco has definitely seen jumpers like it around the castle, more specifically on other gold-and-red based humans, or humans that Draco associates with red and gold, whatever. Usually gingers, but.  
  
“Harry Potter!” Dobby exclaims delightedly, all the tears in his eyes gone now—or back again, but he’s smiling, a _lot_ , that Draco cringes.  
  
Dobby continues, “Harry Potter is giving this to Dobby, yes,” picking at the knit with his bony spidery fingers, “he is giving them to all the elves! But they are not wanting them, so Dobby wears all of them.” He beams. “They were gifts for our—”  
  
He breaks off and starts glaring at Draco, like he’s just remembered to be angry with him again.  
  
“Potter,” Draco says blankly, because of course. He didn’t know who else to expect; it’s always Potter this, Potter that, oh, Potter saved the Wizarding World, oh, Potter defeated the Dark Lord, oh, Potter might be the Hero but he’s struggling with Charms, isn’t that so _delightfully funny_?  
  
Before he can help himself, Draco is saying, “He’s back at the school.”  
  
Dobby brightens up again. Apparently, Potter is the light of his life, or something, so Draco might as well start talking about him so Dobby will stop looking at him in a way that makes Draco’s stomach turn over. Or Draco could leave, he could do that too.  
  
“Dobby knows!” Dobby says excitedly. “Dobby has cleaned all of Harry Potter’s socks, oh, Harry Potter has such large ones, Dobby did not know Harry Potter has such large feet!” Dobby is playing with his tea cosy in his hands. Draco doesn’t know what he should stare at.  
  
Then Dobby breaks off, like before. He says to Draco, meeting him in the eye (yes, Draco’s stomach turns over again, and he tells it to stop), “But Master Draco does not like Harry Potter, no, he must not want me to talk about Harry Potter. Master Draco  _hates_  Harry Potter.” He says it snidely.  
  
“I—” Draco stares at Dobby in disbelief. “No?” He licks his lips. “I mean. We’re.”  
  
What he and Potter are is hard to define. Draco doesn’t think about it, because he figures after his eighth year is over, he can go on with his life and try to pretend the War didn’t happen for a while, end up seeing some Mind Healer after working for a couple of years at the Department of Mysteries, be stable enough to settle down. Reflecting on Potter will always be there, probably, in the back of his mind but never coming into focus, like a speck of dirt in his eye he thinks he gets rid of but remains there. This is okay; Draco can handle it. Since last year, Draco is good at handling things. Right now Goyle is in the boys’ dormitory sobbing pathetically into his pillow. Draco is about to bring him a pie. Maybe some chicken.  
  
He and Potter still pass each other in the corridors, of course. Potter glances at him and Draco will ignore his gaze. Maybe every once in a while he fails, and Potter will nod at him, and Draco will nod back. They continue on with their lives. Potter is doing terribly in Potions (as usual) and sometimes in Charms. Draco pretends not to notice and breezes by on his schoolwork at an acceptable level. They don’t curse each other in courtyards anymore, bother for sneers or unnecessary comments. Neither of them go out of their way to actively avoid each other, but if Draco plans on studying in the library and sees Potter, Granger, Weasley squared in there, he’ll decide that the common room is better. He’s pretty sure he’s seen Potter enter the Potions classroom a little late every day, peeking around cautiously, making sure that Weasley saves him a spot, too.  
  
So, Draco says, “I do _not_  hate Harry Potter, in fact,” because it would be best to save face and not say that you hate the saviour of the Wizarding World, especially when you don’t.  
  
Dobby perks up. “Master Draco doesn’t hate Harry Potter?” he asks, like Draco hadn’t just said it. And before Draco can make such a comment, Dobby adds, “Are Master Draco and Harry Potter _friends_?"  
  
“No,” Draco says firmly, because they are definitely not that, either.  
  
If Dobby had eyebrows, they would be furrowed. Draco is regretting this whole conversation. He turns on his heel and marches toward the portrait hole.  
  
Then Dobby is saying, “Do Master Draco and Harry Potter _canoodle_?”  
  
Draco did not know that house elves knew that word. He wonders absently if there is a big dictionary of house elf vocabulary, somewhere, and if he can extinguish the word _canoodle_  from it.  
  
“No,” he says, spinning back around.  
  
But Dobby has his head quirked to one side, staring at Draco. Draco really hates house elves’s eyes, he decides. They are too large to fit on a head without falling over. Like a bee’s body.  
  
“Master Draco is blushing,” he says, and no, Master Draco is _not_ , Master Draco just has body temperature and skin tone problems, thank you very much. He purposefully does not adjust the robe of his collar around his neck. “Does Master Draco _want_  to—”  
  
“No!” Draco bursts, so loudly that the other house elves finally stop pretending like they’re not listening and look to him with surprise. Draco doesn’t care. Dobby is making unfounded assumptions. “Dobby, Master Draco is— _I_  do not want anything to do with Potter, especially in a—”  
  
“So Master Draco does hate Harry Potter.” Dobby’s bottom lip is trembling again.  
  
Draco sighs. How do you convey that there is something about a relationship that is not friendly, but not hatred, but not _romantic_ , much less sexual, between two people who are not strangers? You could, he decides, if Dobby was human.  
  
But another house elf is piping up, “Me thinks Master Draco does not want to admit something!”  
  
All at once, she is accompanied by many large, bobbing heads.  
  
“I—” Draco tries to get a good look at her. “Who _are_  you?”  
  
“Winky, sir,” says the house elf. She runs to stand by Dobby’s side and holds his hand. It’s disgusting. “I is thinking that you—you is blushing because you is not wanting to admit something, sir!”  
  
“What could I possibly not want to admit?” Draco demands, throwing his hands up in the air. Great. He is not a hands throwing in the air type of person, but this is what he’s been reduced to when he is surrounded by mad house elves.  
  
Winky widens her eyes—Draco closes his eyes in impatience—before leaning over to whisper something in Dobby’s ear. Dobby’s interested expression clears, and he says, “Master Draco, Master Draco is—”  
  
He stops, looking thoughtful.  
  
Draco exclaims, “Master Draco is _what_?”  
  
“Master Draco is needing to go to bed!” Dobby jumps up suddenly, and starts pushing Draco to the exit.  
  
Draco tries to fight against it, because what the bloody fuck is this house elf doing? But then a bunch of other tiny bony hands are on his backside and legs, too, shoving him toward the portrait hole, and Draco is going, “Wait—Wait, I was going to get something!”  
  
“Master Draco will have to wait until the morning!” Dobby calls. Draco definitely hears a bunch of other whispering behind him.  
  
“What the hell are you tiny rats talking about?” he shouts.  
  
None of them are fazed. The elves pushing Draco manage to get him out of the kitchens, and then Dobby says, “Farewell, Master Draco!” The portrait slams in his face.  
  
Draco treks back to the Slytherin dungeons, ignoring that it gets colder the farther he walks. He had wanted to nab something peppermint for himself, maybe some trout, but those stupid house elves kicked him out and Dobby kept asking him about _Potter_  and Draco fucking hates house elves. He has never really had a particular stance on house elves before, except for that his father used to make Dobby punish himself and tell Draco to leave the room when he did (Draco saw all the welts and cuts on his fingers anyway); and also that Granger is superbly obnoxious with her own house elf talk. She’s never talked to him about it, of course, but Draco has eavesdropped on conversations in Potions and Charms about it. And, alright, in Transfiguration and Ancient Runes, too. Granger is annoying.  
  
He goes back into the single eighth year dorm, dreading it. But Goyle is fast asleep now, and Pansy is too, large snores that he both wants to throw a pillow at her for and smile at. Pansy would probably hex him if he did the former, so he only goes for the latter.  
  
*  
  
He continues on with his not-ignoring-Potter and studying routine for a couple of days, the incident with the house elves a bizarre but irrelevant at the back of his mind. When he’s marching down the stairs one day, he steps on one he’s always used in a place he always steps on.  
  
And collides right into a hard, glasses-wearing body.  
  
“Oof,” says the glasses-wearing body when he falls to the floor. As Draco had been stepping down without much force, he doesn’t fall, so he dusts himself off and peers at the body curiously.  
  
It is, of course, Potter, who looks surprised when he raises himself up again. “Malfoy,” he says, because Potter is not the type to have a filter, or keep his mouth closed when he is surprised.  
  
Draco inclines his head shortly. “Potter,” he says.  
  
Evidently, Potter has no control over his own mouth—to Draco’s astonishment, he smiles at Draco. It flits away, but as Draco continues staring, it comes back again. Draco does not know why he is staring at Potter’s mouth.  
  
He clears his throat.  
  
“Watch where you’re running into people, why don’t you?” he says, even though he’s in a corridor now, and he really doesn’t know how he got here from the moving staircases. He’d been so sure there’s only the missing step. Then again, magic is hard to guess.  
  
Potter shrugs. “I’m pretty sure you ran into me. I didn’t see you coming.”  
  
“Where are Weasel and Granger?” Draco asks, before he can help himself.  
  
He does not want to make conversation with Potter. This is the first he’s had with him since the bloody War and Draco does not want to think about either of those, talking with Potter or the War. He grits his teeth and wants to storm away, except for some reason that does not sound wise.  
  
“Doing,” says Potter, and Draco almost expects him to say _canoodling_. Damn house elves. “Things,” Potter says. “That I don’t want to know about.” He offers Draco another smile.  
  
Draco cups a hand to his forehead. “You have just given me images I never wanted to think about. _Ever_.”  
  
If possible, Potter is grinning even bigger. There’s a hint of his teeth, maybe funnily angled under his lips, and his eyes crinkle. “You’re welcome,” Potter says, and then begins to brush past him. “See you, Malfoy.”  
  
He leaves.  
  
Draco does not turn around to watch him go because that is not what Malfoys do. And, anyway, he’s kind of confused at what just happened, because Potter was smiling at him, and Potter does not smile at Draco. But Draco also doesn’t continue conversations with Potter, so he can’t blame him entirely, he admits begrudgingly to himself. Though, he would like to blame him.  
  
He stands around the corridor a little longer, trying to make sense of direction and where the hell in the castle he is, because he’s explored plenty enough but not all of it. As he turns on his heel, he spots a flash of green peeking around a corner.  
  
There’s a sinking sensation in Draco’s stomach as he marches toward the corner, only to find Dobby cowering behind it. Which is ridiculous, because Dobby could easily have Apparated away if he truly wanted to. House elves are stupid.  
  
Draco wrangles Dobby by the sweater he’s wearing today (emerald and grey) and hauls him up to his face.  
  
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands.  
  
Dobby snaps his fingers, and then he’s out of Draco’s grasp and back on the ground. “Master Draco should not manhandle Dobby that way!” he says.  
  
Draco is going to get rid of the word _manhandle_  from the Great House Elf Dictionary, too.  
  
“Dobby is giving Master Draco what Master Draco wanted!” Dobby continues, happily.  
  
“And what exactly,” Draco bites out, “do you think _Master Draco_  wants?”  
  
“Harry Potter, of course!”  
  
To Draco’s horrified expression, Dobby claps his hands in glee. “Harry Potter clearly wants Master Draco, too, Master Draco _must’ve_  seen the way Harry Potter is looking at Master Draco! Dobby knows Harry Potter and Master Draco so well, oh yes,” Dobby nods, “Dobby has full confidence that Dobby will do well.”  
  
“Do not,” Draco says, “do well. On this. Any of the—” He gestures with his left hand. “Any of this.”  
  
It’s terrible and manipulative and Granger would probably hate him for it. What can he say, Draco kind of finds Granger’s rants about _spew_  kind of funny. She would probably also have his head for shaking Dobby earlier, but it’s too late for that.  
  
Dobby is trembling and rubbing his knuckles together nervously. But finally his body relaxes and he mutters reluctantly, “Dobby will do Dobby’s best to… not do Dobby’s best…”  
  
“Good,” Draco says firmly, watching the house elf slink away. As he does, Draco adds, “And get me a mince pie.”  
  
*  
  
There is a mince pie at his bedside later, and Draco hands it to Goyle before going to bed that night. Goyle smiles at him, which doesn’t happen very often, and eats it greedily with his fingers. Draco does not watch, just tucks himself into bed and lays on his pillow. Pansy’s eyes are soft as she stares at him across the room and he sticks his wand out from a pillow, conjures a large pillow on her face. She yelps and throws it at him.  
  
They’re okay. They all walk together to classes, because they’re taking the same classes this year and they’re the only Slytherins getting the dirty looks. Pansy had made sure of it on the first day. It’d been obvious enough that the numbers in their year have whittled down to half because enough of the ex-seventh years had mentally tortured themselves at this school last year, even if the castle hadn’t liked it (so according to Pansy, as she was in the school all year and had dark shadows under her eyes every time Draco came back once a month.) Draco needed to bring some honor back to his family then, though, and Goyle had been staying with him, so they came together. Pansy had sniffed and said she doesn’t do things in halves (Draco had pointed out that seven out of a potential eight is not half), and Nott is… actually, Draco isn’t sure why Nott is here. He’s still useless.  
  
On their first day of classes, Draco and Pansy had spotted some first year Hufflepuffs prodding and taunting their own first years in the courtyard. Pansy had sniffed and asked the Hufflepuffs what their problem with their Slytherin first years was, and some sniveling git had said, “All Slytherins are Death Eaters,” while the others looked at Pansy wide-eyed.  
  
Pansy said, “Draco here is the closest thing in our House to a Death Eater and he can’t even commit murder.” She’d said it so frankly that it shocked everyone around them into silence.  
  
Then she said, “Get your facts straight, you _brat_ ,” before stomping away.  
  
(Afterward Draco didn’t speak to her for a full day, but when she came up to him she said, “Well, I wasn’t lying, was I?” and he’d replied, “I didn’t take you for a good person, Parkinson,” and it was all okay afterward.)  
  
Nott walks with them even though Draco’s pretty sure no one really pays attention to him. Goyle’s got him in what sounds like a one-sided conversation about pudding texture (“It really brings out the _flavour_.”) while Draco is making last minute additions to his Transfiguration essay, when—  
  
There’s Potter, a dazed look on his face.  
  
Draco stops, then scowls, because his inkwell and parchment and quill have spilled everywhere, though luckily not on his actual essay.  
  
“Potter,” he growls, bending down to pick his things up. “Fancy meeting you here.”  
  
“Malfoy.” Potter sounds surprised. “What are you—” He glances around and fiddles with his glasses, almost like a nervous tic. “I swear I’d just been in the common room,” he mutters.  
  
“What were you doing in your common room? We have Transfiguration.”  
  
And now Pansy is looking at him funny, and Goyle and Nott are too. Draco feels his cheeks warm and curses his stupid skin pigment problem.  
  
“Er,” Potter says, evidently noticing them too. “Parkinson. Um, Goyle. Nott.”  
  
“Draco,” Pansy says, ignoring him. “Let’s go to class.”  
  
“I—yeah.” Draco takes a second glance back at Potter, who is watching him curiously. Draco considers himself a master at reading people, but he cannot read Potter’s expression at all. Hell, he doesn’t even know what _he’s_  thinking, because his eyes are focused on the way Potter’s lips are pressed like maybe he wants to say something but he wants Draco to say something first. Draco doesn’t know what to say, so he follows the others to Transfiguration.  
  
Potter, however, is quick to realise where they’re going and follows them. “I was so sure I was going to be late,” he says, like, oh, all of a sudden it’s normal for Potter to continue their conversation like it’s nothing.  
  
Draco tries to ignore him.  
  
Goyle says from between Pansy and Nott, “Well, you’re not going to be late now.”  
  
Potter actually smiles at Goyle. It makes Draco fume. “Yeah,” Potter agrees. “Ron and Hermione are going to hate me, I told them I’d meet up with them.”  
  
“Were they snogging in a broom closet?” Draco says drily.  
  
Potter shrugs. “I dunno. I hope not. That doesn’t sound sanitary.”  
  
Draco snorts, but catches himself mid-way, so it just sounds like a nasal hiccough. Everyone looks at him strange, so he coughs quickly and guides them into the classroom.  
  
As Pansy, Goyle, and Nott go for their usual seats, Draco takes Potter aside by the arm to the corner of the classroom. He hisses, “What the hell are you doing, Potter, we are not _friends_.”  
  
It feels more real when he’s saying it to Potter’s face, seeing Potter react, and Draco’s not sure how he likes it. Potter’s eyes go a little big behind his glasses and Draco’s stomach drops with something. It’s different than seeing a wide-eyed house elf. Maybe a little worse.  
  
“I know.” Potter’s tone is surprisingly hard-edged, to contrast how he’d just been speaking to Draco earlier. “We’re classmates, Malfoy. We can still talk.”  
  
_Classmates_. That’s perhaps a good word for it. Draco makes a note to tell Dobby later.  
  
“I apologise if I’ve somehow offended you with my presence,” Potter snaps, and then he’s headed across the classroom, taking a seat on the opposite end.  
  
Draco fights the urge to shake his head as he makes his way over to Pansy and the others. Pansy is frowning and asks, “You talk to Potter?”  
  
“So he won't talk to us,” Draco replies, sitting down next to her. “It’s—not—” He recalls Potter’s words. “We’re classmates.”  
  
Pansy’s eyebrows go up. “Obviously.”  
  
Weasley and Granger come in several minutes later, and they are furious. They berate Potter saying that they waited for him—under hushed breaths, of course, because their professor is talking and everyone loves the three of them too much to properly scold them for being distracting—and Potter is giving them half-hearted apologies and grinning when he asks them about what _they_ were doing, anyway. Draco watches as Granger quiets with tight lips and Weasley’s ears turn as bright as his hair.  
  
_Definitely snogging in a broom closet then_ , Draco thinks, and almost wants to tell Potter, _I told you so_.  
  
But Potter is not looking at him and they are classmates, not friends. So Draco does not.  
  
He stops giving Draco nods in the halls, too, and Draco refuses to be upset by it. Maybe he glances twice or thrice in case he misses it, but Potter is resolute in ignoring him. Draco didn’t realise that being classmates entails ignoring each other, but telling Potter so would be like giving in, or making Potter think that he cared.  
  
When Draco is walking back from a walk on the grounds during the lunch hour a few days later, he spots a pair of green eyes staring at him around the main entrance staircase. Stupidly he thinks it’s Potter for a second, until he realises they’re too big and from a lower level off the ground to be Potter, and Draco huffs. _Of course_.  
  
He whirls around and there’s Dobby, looking up at him bright-eyed.  
  
“What’d you do last time?” Draco demands. “To Potter, I know that was you!”  
  
“Master Draco is upset at seeing Harry Potter?” Dobby asks, eyes shining. “Master Draco hates—?”  
  
“ _No_ , Master Draco does not hate anyone, but Master Draco is coming close to hating you!” Draco’s voice goes embarrassingly high-pitched and he doesn’t care.  
  
Dobby doesn’t waver. “Dobby just wants to see Master Draco and Harry Potter happy together,” he says, pouting. “Does Master Draco not want to be happy?”  
  
“I am happy!” Draco snaps, knowing full well that he is not exactly helping himself. “Stop fucking meddling, didn’t I give you an order last time?”  
  
“Master Draco told Dobby not to do well at ‘this’,” and Dobby makes quotes with his fingers and Draco positively sees red because the water in Dobby’s eyes are gone, Merlin, this manipulative _bastard_ , “so Dobby is obeying. Not doing well at ‘this.’” He makes the quotes motion again.  
  
Draco lunges for him. “Why you _little_ —”  
  
Dobby jumps out of his grasp. His eyes are watery again and Draco doesn’t care if he makes Dobby cry. “Dobby, you are not allowed to—”  
  
But Dobby just throws him a little smile before snapping his fingers and disappearing into thin air.  
  
Draco growls and traipses back to the dungeons, wishing he could run into Potter along the way and wring his neck too for making Draco—Draco practically shouts the password at the stone wall and pretty sure the creaking is chastising him, but he doesn’t care.  
  
“You look upset,” Pansy comments from the window ledge as Draco storms over to her. She’s working on an essay while the mermaids and kelpie swim outside in the green. Studying is all they can do these days, because Exploding Snap or chess would make them feel too much like they’re trying to cope with the war all around them again.  
  
Draco huffs and hovers over her shoulder. “You spelled _porpoise_  wrong.”  
  
“Like Slughorn’s going to notice,” says Pansy, but she scribbles it out anyway. “Any Gryffindors get your panties in a knot?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Really?” Pansy peers up at him under her long eyelashes. “Hufflepuffs? Ravenclaws?”  
  
“If you must know,” says Draco, relenting. “It’s house elves."  
  
“Hm. House elves.” Pansy taps the pointy end of her quill against her chin because she’s ticklish. It leaves a dark dot on her face. “Granger would have your head for that, you know.”  
  
“I know,” says Draco.  
  
Pansy rubs at the dot, though it doesn’t go away, just smears. “I approve,” she says after a second, and returns to her essay.  
  
*  
  
Because Draco hadn’t managed to get a proper command to Dobby, he is only hardly surprised the next time he runs into Potter. This time it’s because he actually is turning the corner when Potter appears, and they stumble so badly into each other that the side of Draco’s jaw hits Potter’s cheekbone.  
  
“Ugh,” Draco says absently, rubbing at it. He sees Potter wincing and steels his gaze immediately, bringing his hand down.  
  
Potter notices him too and blinks. “Malfoy,” he says, because he is so bloody stupid and always says people’s names when he runs into them. He has no manners.  
  
Draco says curtly, “Potter,” and side steps him.  
  
He walks two paces forward when Potter says, “Wait.”  
  
Draco spins around. Potter is chewing on his bottom lip—really, does Potter have zero control over his mouth?—and looking somewhere near the edge of Draco’s left shoe.  
  
“Your,” Potter says. “Your wand. I never gave it back to you.”  
  
This sends a whole new level of rage simmering in Draco, threaded with things like, _Draco Malfoy was the last master of the Elder Wand_  and _Narcissa Malfoy saved my life_. He hates Harry bloody Potter and his stupid do good attitude, and if Malfoys spat, Draco would spit at his feet right now.  
  
Draco snarls, “Keep it,” and begins stalking away.  
  
But Potter says, “Draco,” and something in Draco breaks, and he is turning back around and storming up to Harry bloody Potter and crowding into his space.  
  
“Don’t you dare call me that,” Draco hisses. “And I already have a wand, so I don’t _care_  about the one you have, you killed the bloody Dark Lord with it, _you’re_  the one who has it, so you can take my stupid, bloody wand and shove it up your arse.”  
  
“I would rather not,” Potter says, after a moment where Draco is just panting in his face, trying to get rid of the white noise between his ears. “Wands work better in hands, I think.”  
  
Draco stares at him.  
  
Potter says thoughtfully, “I wonder for how many Galleons I could sell the wand that killed Voldemort,” and Draco flinches away, but then something strange happens.  
  
Draco starts laughing, laughing so hard that his knees have buckled down a little and his hands are clutched over his stomach. Tension and anxiety bubble out of him; it’s like his body has been needing for him to lash out at Potter and have Potter not make a big deal out of it, because suddenly the War seems far away, a lot of things seem far away—and they’re not, really, but everything feels microscopically smaller when he manages to get himself under control and is just faintly wheezing under his breath.  
  
Potter is staring at him, but he’s also smiling. Draco never imagined that he—that _anyone_  would have imagined this, the two of them alone in this deserted bloody corridor grinning stupidly at each other. He will not assault Dobby today, he thinks, as he rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes, which look slightly red-rimmed.  
  
“Ron’s wand jokes never work on Hermione,” Potter continues conversationally.  
  
Draco gags. “Potter, do _not_  ever say _anything_  like that to me again.”  
  
Potter laughs at him this time. It’s not a terrible sound, Draco decides.  
  
“And anyway,” Draco says. “Weasley probably has a terrible sense of humor anyway. So that’s no surprise.”  
  
Potter shrugs, maybe like he disagrees with Draco but won’t vocalize it. It’s weirdly the nicest thing Potter has ever done for him, though, Draco recalls Potter punching him in the stomach before, so there’s really not that much to compete against.  
  
“So,” Potter says. “Er. I was supposed to meet up at the Gryffindor Tower a while ago,” he checks his watch, “so I’m going to—”  
  
“Yes, yes, go to your adoring public, I’m sure they’re all waiting on bended hand and knee.” Draco rolls his eyes and waves his hand behind him. He does not feel disappointed, at all.  
  
Potter’s gaze flickers to him again, and it’s—well, it’s new, really.  
  
“Classmates?” he asks Draco.  
  
And, against Draco’s will, his lips quirk up.  
  
“Classmates."  
  
*  
  
He does not active seek to talk to Potter at every waking moment, or at any moment, really. But the chin nods from before have turned into smiles (or “hellos” if Draco really wants to make Weasley trip over his robes; Potter retaliates next time by saying, “Good morning, Malfoy,” the next day and Pansy from where she’s applying her makeup smears all over her right eyelid and curses at Potter’s retreating back), and Draco doesn’t avoid the library even if he sees Potter and Weasley and Granger standing there, and maybe they’ll find themselves browsing the same bookshelf and making low conversation about what they’re looking for, or if Potter is bored of Granger and Weasley pretending they’re not passing notes to each other on their parchment. Sometimes when the girl Weasley is with them too, Potter doesn’t try to talk to Draco; but once girl Weasley follows him and then _she’s_  the one who asks Draco what he’s looking for. They end up having a conversation about Ancient Runes that Potter doesn’t seem to follow.  
  
Draco tries really hard not to like her.  
  
The school has speculated that they’re together, that they’ve broken up, but Draco has figured by the way girl Weasley touches Potter’s wrist sometimes but them never touching anywhere else, there’s nothing going on between them. Not that Draco cares. Draco is very observant of his classmates.  
  
He wraps his lips around a sugar quill as he peers through the heads at Potter over at Gryffindor table on the other side of the Great Hall.  
  
“Draco, stop that, you’re practically giving fellatio in public.” Pansy slaps his hand down and leans against his shoulder. “What are you looking at?”  
  
“Nothing,” Draco says quickly, going back to his meat and potatoes.  
  
Pansy scowls at him. “You are an awful liar,” she chides. “Where has all your practise gone? Have I taught you nothing?”  
  
“You’ve taught me absolutely nothing,” Draco confirms, and barely manages to get away when she tries to whack his arm.  
  
Draco has not seen Dobby lately, but he’s also not run into Potter inconveniently lately, so he figures that Dobby has given up. Until the day he is stepping on a staircase and accidentally spots the back of a head with dark hair sticking up turning somewhere down below—  
  
And then he’s found himself in a dark and incredibly cramped space.  
  
“Ow,” says someone pressed against him; they are warm. Draco knows it’s Potter both from his voice and the way the light from under the door is shedding against his glasses.  
  
“Potter,” says Draco wryly.  
  
“Malfoy?” Potter sounds surprised. Then, “Fancy meeting you here.”  
  
Draco chuckles, and looks up to the ceiling. “So this is what took him so long,” he murmurs.  
  
“Who, what?” Potter asks. “Shit, I think there’s something digging into my back—can you move to the left a little?”  
  
Draco moves and Potter adjusts, stumbling on what sounds like a broom. “Ow,” Potter says again.  
  
Draco rolls his eyes and is embarrassed by how he is not embarrassed by this situation. He distracts himself with Dobby’s magical abilities; house elves do have remarkably stronger magic than witches and wizards, but allowing an untimed item to allow two full magical persons to appear in one selected place, rather than just teleporting one to the other as Draco had suspected Dobby had been doing before, requires significantly more power than usual. Draco wonders if Dobby’s had any help, and then remembers Winky and the others. House elves are meddling, he thinks. He should go to Granger with a suggestion for her silly elf organization, and also maybe give Weasley better wand jokes.  
  
“Do you know what we’re doing here?” Potter asks, as Draco winds down from reassuring himself that it is okay he is locked in a broom closet with Potter, he’ll just go down to the kitchens and have a chat with a certain house elf later.  
  
Draco heaves a sigh. “Yes,” he says, all-sufferingly. “Your bloody house elf is under the impression that I am pining for you, or that you are pining for me, or whatever it is that house elves think.” He huffs and keeps his body temperature in check.  
  
Potter laughs a little against his skin. “What?”  
  
“Dobby,” Draco spits, except it doesn’t come out as a spit, it comes out sort of fond, and oh god, Draco’s really lost his mind, he’s gotten all soft for a _house elf_. “He has—he used the word _canoodling_ ,” he says, because he needs to tell _someone_.  
  
“Oh my god.” Potter is full out laughing now, body trembling against Draco’s.  
  
Draco can’t help himself. “And _manhandle_. I swear, I do not understand Granger’s mindset at all, house elves are absolute torture.”  
  
“If you say so.” Potter sounds amused. “So—if I’m hearing you correctly—Dobby thinks that we should—be together?”  
  
“Yes.” Draco sighs and hits the back of his head against the door. “Canoodle, if you will, I honestly don’t understand where he ever got that idea, I never should’ve gone to the kitchens in the first place.”  
  
“Stop saying ‘canoodle’, you’re making it sound weird.” But Draco can hear Potter’s smile through the dark. “That’s strange, I didn’t—well, I suppose Dobby knows you well, and he knows me, so.” He shrugs.  
  
Draco huffs. “Yes, well, it’s been pleasant being here in this oh-so very comfortable space with you, Potter,” he says. “Now, if you don’t mind, since I don’t quite fancy twisting my arm, could you get the door?”  
  
Potter just chuckles again and reaches around Draco. Draco hears the unrelenting click, and Potter pulls back and says, “It’s locked.”  
  
“Because it’s not like we’re wizards,” Draco says, rolling his eyes and reaching into his pockets.  
  
But when he sticks his hand in, his pocket is empty.  
  
“I don’t have my wand,” Potter says, confirming Draco’s suspicions.  
  
Panic is rising in Draco’s throat. The house elves must not have—but that would explain why it took such a long time—and Draco is gritting his teeth, and does not want to spend the rest of his life with Potter, as pleasant company as he is. Potter is, alright, slightly more than tolerable, but also this is a _closet_  and Draco will not stoop to that level, much less Pansy. In a weird, physical sort of way, he would kind of prefer being in a closet with Potter than Pansy, but—Anyway.  
  
“Potter, come over here,” he says into the dark.  
  
“Malfoy.” Potter is smiling again. Draco is annoyed that this is a thing he can _hear_. “I can’t really move.”  
  
Draco seizes his wrist, the one that girl Weasley always touches, drags Potter in, and plants a kiss on his lips. While Potter is frozen and wet in shock against him, Draco winds his arm behind him, twists the door handle, and yanks it back as hard as he can.  
  
They stumble out backwards, practically on top of each other. Draco feels all the heat collecting up to his face when nearby people stop and stare at them, because the house elves couldn’t have picked a less secluded closet, _of course_. Draco grinds his teeth; he knows exactly what this looks like. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter stumbling out of a closet, lips slightly wet, hair disheveled, oh my.  
  
Draco picks himself up and hears Potter go, “Malfoy, wait,” behind him. But, pink and humiliated, Draco storms down the hallway, not meeting anyone’s eyes, to hole himself in Slytherin dungeons.  
  
*  
  
“Draco,” Pansy says in a sing-song voice. “I heard a rumour about you today.”  
  
“Whatever you heard was not true.” Draco is writing an essay. He hates writing essays. He pretty much hates everything.  
  
“I heard that you and Potter were caught _snogging_.” Pansy winds down and tries to fit into the chair that Draco is sitting in, except her hips are wider than Draco’s and the Slytherin chairs suck arse. Draco hates them, too.  
  
“We were doing nothing of the sort,” Draco snaps, because they weren’t.  
  
“In a _closet_.” Pansy giggles. Draco hates that too. Well, not Pansy particularly. Just when she giggles. Or anyone giggles.  
  
Draco clenches the quill tighter in his hand.  
  
“So do you not kiss and tell?” Pansy teases. “Has Potter become your boytoy on the side? Ooh, think of the _Prophet_ —”  
  
“No,” Draco cuts her off. And when Pansy bats her eyelashes at him, he says, more emphatically, “No.”  
  
“Oh, Draco, you should be grateful I’m not against it,” says Pansy, straightening back up. “After all, he’s not just a Gryffindor, he’s the most Gryffindor of them all. He’s Harry Potter.”  
  
“I am,” says Draco, “quite aware of who he is, thank you.”  
  
“This explains so much, though,” Pansy says thoughtfully. She’s tapping her chin, and Draco wants to make her hold his quill. “First year, second year—oh, do you remember third year? And _fourth_  year…”  
  
“Out,” Draco says.  
  
Pansy turns her nose up. “This is the common room, you prat,” she says, before going back to the girls’ dorm.  
  
But she’ll probably ask him for more details about snogging Potter at dinner, so he figures it’s okay, anyway.  
  
Draco has been hiding in the Slytherin dungeons all weekend. They had been in the closet only Friday, so he isn’t missing classes, so his mother won’t be disappointed, nor will McGonagall. Draco sighs and puts his quill down. Maybe if he went to yell at some house elves he’ll feel better. He thinks maybe he should try talking to Potter about this too, but that sounds more humiliating than the time when Draco was turned into a ferret in front of everyone, and, okay, Draco did not want to think about that either, and now he is. Draco’s life is an embarrassing mess that is also somehow filled with copious amounts of torture and murder. He thinks, sardonically, how he has come to this point and anxiety over having kissed the Boy Who Lived.  
  
A few minutes later, he’s left the common room, having put his things back in his trunk in the boys’ dormitory. People are staring at him for being an almost-Death Eater, a Malfoy, and, now, a pouf. Or for tarnishing Harry Potter’s virtue. Or that too.  
  
It’s really only Slytherins, though, and they’re mostly scared of him, until he gets to the Hufflepuff wing. Then he casts _Protego_ , just in case some sixth or seventh year tries to do something funny. He can handle fifth years and below.  
  
He tickles the pear and lets the portrait swing open. However, when he gets there, there’s already someone there, bending down near the fireplace.  
  
Draco spins on his heel to escape, but Potter’s already saying, “Malfoy.” Draco grits his teeth and turns back around.  
  
Potter stands up. Behind him, Dobby has his head bowed, looking a little bit bashful. When Draco meets his eyes, though, Dobby is smiling.  
  
Draco decides that maybe he will make a group opposing Granger’s spew thing.  
  
“Potter,” he says, because he is in this place now and he cannot escape. Potter is a better wizard than Hufflepuff seventh years.  
  
“Er,” says Potter. “Here, they—you’re probably wondering where these went.” He sticks out his hand, which is holding a couple of wands. Draco recognizes his immediately.  
  
Draco snatches his and swallows the urge to make some sort of, you gave me my wand back, are you happy now comment.  Potter must be thinking it too because his green eyes flicker with something that looks like amusement, before he jerks his head to the side. He stares somewhere at Draco’s shoulder and scuffs his foot.  
  
“I s’pose we should talk,” says Potter.  
  
Draco grunts.  
  
“Actually,” Potter shakes his head for a second and moves aside. “Isn’t there something you want to say first, Dobby?”  
  
Dobby peers up at Draco with the biggest, most watery eyes Draco has ever seen on him before. Draco wants to roll his own.  
  
“Sorry Master Draco,” Dobby says, as if rehearsed.  
  
Potter gestures behind him. “And the rest of you?”  
  
“Sorry, Master Draco,” chant the other house elves.  
  
Draco is baffled, as Potter meets his gaze this time. “It’s terrifying,” he says, “how you can literally lead a mob on like this.”  
  
“It’s a good thing you’re not on my bad side anymore,” Potter chuckles.  
  
Draco clutches his chest, mockingly. “That was _dark_ , Potter,” he says, though he is in genuine awe. Potter doesn’t even look ashamed; he just has his arms folded, smirking.  
  
Draco doesn’t trust himself falling into this easy pattern with Potter. He finds it difficult to climb out, though—he finds it difficult to _want_  to climb out.  
  
Then Potter is clearing his throat and his cheeks are turning red and he’s not looking Draco in the eye anymore.  
  
“So,” says Potter. “About the other day.”  
  
Draco waits.  
  
Potter stares at him. “Don’t—Don’t you have anything to say?”  
  
“You started it,” Draco points out. “I’m listening.”  
  
“Oh.” Potter takes his arms down and scratches the back of his head. “I-I mean, Malfoy, I didn’t really expect it. Well, I guess I didn’t really know about all this,” he gestures around the kitchen, where the house elves are obviously pretending they aren’t listening in to their conversation, “but I. Um. I don’t think we got a chance to talk about it.”  
  
“What’s there to talk about?” Draco asks.  
  
“I, er.” Potter’s cheeks are redder and he is even more pointedly staring at the crook of Draco’s elbow, if possible. “I fancy you, Malfoy.”  
  
Draco probably stops breathing.  
  
“What?” he manages.  
  
He sounds strangled.  
  
“Er,” says Potter. “For a while, I mean, I didn’t think anything would come of it,” and he’s speaking in a rush now and Draco is forcing himself to listen even though his mind is cycling through very different words, words Potter’s already said, “it’s just a passing thing, I thought, and then we were, I dunno, we were being alright, and a bunch of other things happened, and I don’t, I didn’t mind too terribly, you know, the closet, or everything—”  
  
“Potter,” Draco says suddenly.  
  
Potter stops talking right away.  
  
“You are giving me a headache,” Draco says, because Potter is.  
  
But Draco also presses his lips in a thin line and crosses his arms over his chest, protectively. “And I am not completely adverse,” he says, “to you fancying me, because incidentally I do not exactly feel differently—”  
  
“Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend?” Potter blurts.  
  
Draco stares at him.  
  
Somewhere behind them, he’s pretty sure a house elf cheers. Other than that the kitchen is completely quiet, even void of the sounds of the pots and pans clanging.  
  
“Broom closets, kitchens, and then Hogsmeade,” he says anyway, continuing like they’re the only ones in the room. “We’re truly moving fast, Potter.”  
  
Potter laughs, bright and blinding against his crimson cheeks. “I know,” he says.  
  
Draco wants to kiss Potter’s dimples so badly, so he says, “Oh, Potter, just come here.” And Potter does, the same time Draco reaches loosely for his hand, and then they’re kissing and it doesn’t matter who started it because Potter’s hands are in Draco’s hair and Draco is sliding his tongue in Potter’s mouth, in front of house elves, in front of _Dobby_ , and yes, they are all cheering now, every single one of them.  
  
Faintly, as Potter smiles against him, warm and soft, Draco finds that it’s not too terrible. He doesn’t mind house elves all that much.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
[[CODA:  
  
“So,” says Potter, nudging up against Draco’s side, because Draco finds the idea of holding hands in public disgusting. “You knew this whole time and never decided to mention it to me?”  
  
“It would’ve ended in terrible results,” Draco declares. He watches the orange leaves fall from their branches, dotting the ground. They’re both in heavier robes because it’s starting to get cool already, but Draco kind of likes the way Potter looks bundled up even if he’s shivering.  
  
Potter shrugs at him. “I’m not sure about that,” he says.  
  
“Yes, I’m quite sure,” Draco says. “You probably would’ve gone raving to Granger and Weasley about what a filthy liar I am, and then they would’ve disembodied me.”  
  
Granger and Weasley are, at the moment, at the Three Broomsticks, along with Draco’s friends. Draco and Potter had decided early on that it would be hilarious to leave them all alone together and think that they were shagging in the restroom, so they’d excused themselves and then went outside for a walk. It’d been Potter’s idea, actually. Draco wonders if his friends will find some redeemable quality about Nott, being Gryffindors.  
  
Potter shrugs. “You have no proof of that.”  
  
“And you have no proof of the opposite,” says Draco, nudging him back. “Don’t try to bet against me, Potter.”  
  
Potter rolls his eyes.  
  
He says thoughtfully, as they stroll along the matted streets, which are an improvement compared to what Draco had seen last year, “I wonder how the house elves knew about the shortcut on the fourth floor, though. I don’t think many people know about that one.”  
  
“They’re house elves, what’d you expect?” Draco scoffs.  
  
Then: “Wait, which shortcut?”  
  
“Behind the hidden wall, on the east side.” Potter makes a vague motion with his hand. “Coming out on the…”  
  
He coughs. “When we had the fight,” he says, face flushing. “And then you laughed.”  
  
Realization begins to dawn on Draco. “Oh,” he says faintly. “I don’t—I don’t think that was actually the house elves,” he says, because he’d known that shortcut, too, when Goyle had found it back in third year and he and—well, and they used to use it to prank Blaise sometimes and then run away. Blaise is in Sweden because he’s too rich to come back to Hogwarts, according to Pansy. Draco’s pretty sure Blaise is just lazy.  
  
Potter blinks, and then he says, “Oh,” too. And then, with a little laugh, “That—That incident was just us?”  
  
“Evidently.” Draco observes his fingernails.  
  
“That wasn’t too bad,” says Potter. His head is tilted to the side, lips twitching. “I’m pretty sure that’s when we started getting along—”  
  
“Oh god, Potter,” Draco says, because he’s heard this all before.  
  
“Started being _friends_ ,” Potter teases.  
  
“Potter,” Draco says to the brown leaf fluttering in front of him. He snatches it and waves it in front of Potter’s face. “We are not friends!”  
  
“Yeah,” says Potter, taking the leaf out of his hands and smiling. He kisses the corner of Draco’s mouth chastely. “I know.”]]

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed it, I would love to hear from you! :D


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